


Poetic Edda

by Myraculous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Eventual Smut, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-18 10:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18247655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myraculous/pseuds/Myraculous
Summary: And then there were – are – three. A paladin of justice, a witch of benevolence, and a fighter whose internal war with her own demons would either return Gibraltar to where it once was or solidify its annihilation. These are the heroines of an unlikely tale who were on a mission…of some sort.





	1. Prologue

Gibraltar Isle had once known peace.

For centuries, the nation of Gibraltar, under the supervision of the Matriarchy, had been exemplars of love, civilization, humanitarianism, and happiness. Songs of jubilee rung through the open borders of the nation, where any passerby’s ears would perk at the elevated sound, their hearts moved to believe that they, too, could fraternize with contentment. Wayward souls – organic or artificial – traveled hundreds of miles to experience what the enlightened would call “The Illumination”. Luminescence of realizing a purpose, perhaps not for the extent of a lifetime, but an idea of how to get there.

Now, the land of harmony has mutated into the habitat of the cursed. Violence, destitution, fear – all are synonymous with Gibraltar; albeit not of their own doing.

Ah, alas. Before visiting the present, one must familiarize themselves with the past. For there was no slow progression from peace to poverty. On the contrary, it was one unfortunate event that would alter the fates of thousands.

And then there were – are – three. A paladin of justice, a witch of benevolence, and a fighter whose internal war with her own demons would either return Gibraltar to where it once was or solidify its annihilation. These are the heroines of an unlikely tale who were on a mission…of some sort.  

Today is the first day of the first month of the new year. As tradition calls for, the bell tower amid a sleepy town bests the rooster’s crow in jarring eyes awake from slumber. Early rising is customary for adults to commence their commute to work, listless children wrestle their willpower in favor of education. Yet, today is a holiday. Adults work to iron the wrinkles from their finery, refining the intricacies of their masks. Children chore until the setting of the sun calls for them to gather on the low tide shore of the beach.

On the first day of the first month of the twentieth year after the Automation Crisis, it was said that the goddess Erathis herself retired from the Ethereal Plane to walk among the haphazardly spread carcasses of the long-abandoned battlefield. Her mourning caused half a day of relentless rainfall, pooling at her feet until the periphery of the land partitioned it from the outside world with salty sea. From every exhalation of sadness, the air swirled and transformed with the sweet aromas of violets and lilies. Around each footprint left behind grew rich foliage on the otherwise barren land.

It was on that day that Erathis’s conviction swayed her to undo carnage through conception. The goddess of civilization molded dry, blood-soaked soil in her divine hands, creating a haven. A place for productivity, equality, indulgence. Gibraltar.

Erathis housed the deva of Ioun and Corellun. Together, the mortals and the angels discovered knowledge and art that no life form had before had the means to wield.

And so, Gibraltar spends this day to thank Erathis for her empathy and generosity. Commemorating her sorrow with unwavering glee, they don the masks made from their own ingenuity, dress in clothes that accentuate the form given to them by their mystical ancestors, and bask in the accomplishment in the years past, beginning at the origin of the Isle. Congratulations spread like contagion, for every achievement of the personal is a triumph of the people.

As the clock strikes midnight, people filter the Matriarch Gala Hall with excitement buzzing through their bodies like a hive. The gemstones of their masks glimmer blindingly against the shining expanse of the polished marble floor. The two white staircases wind from the wings of the ballroom to a balcony that stands as proudly as the women upon it.

The four of them watch behind their own visages as they observe the patrons jaunt their way past the rosewood threshold. The Matriarchs are dressed well in their own right, uniquely fashioned to display their respective affinities. A cat, a horse, a peacock, and a tall woman whose lack of camouflage is compensated by her irrevocable elegance.

Masses of people simmers to a trickle; the Matriarchs nod to one another, signifying that the party should begin. And so, simultaneously, they bring their respective hands together - two claps in quick succession. The inebriated whoops and hollers bounce off the walls, the merrymaking seems ceaseless.

Until, of course, it ceases.

Thick black smoke smears soot on every surface, brazen flames lick at the heels of fleeing fleet. Screams claw at already bleeding eardrums, seeping through inky darkness. Frantic bodies push and pull, toppling like dominoes. Strong overcome the weak, thunking onto the floor are unfortunate partygoers whose last memory will be the bottoms of escaping heels previously leaving divots in their melting flesh. Confusion; consuming, crippled cries catapulting into crisis. Columns collapse as they crumble from the force of bodies crashing along without their wits about them. Inhalation of the pollution grew and until visions fade to black. Debris falls from above, the unsuspecting pulverized by fragments of the shattered chandelier. No one notices the warm blood slashed on formerly well-pressed civvies.

There is no gathering outside. There is no watching as an explosion blasts the Gala Hall to the Astral Plane with morbid finality. The lingering souls inside are burned to ash. Surging past the sterling gates, the fire strolls down the red brick avenue toward the emptied town.

Yes, Gibraltar had once known peace.


	2. The Paladin, The Witch, and The Fighter

Fareeha has always been a fan of parties. She loves the warm atmosphere, the savory food, the strong libations. She has to say, of all the parties she’s been to, the annual Erathis Soirée is her favorite. Not only was the entertainment to die for, but she especially loved the copious amounts of beautiful people dressed to the nines, flirting, laughing, sneaking into dark corners…

Everything is dark now.

Dark, she can’t breathe. She can’t see. She can’t move without bile inching up the column of her throat, threatening her to keel over and surrender. Her tongue can only register the bitterness of the ashen debris falling into her mouth, agape with the desperate need to inhale. She can feel the harsh thrusts of patrons swarming to the exit. She reaches out with a determined hand, hoping to grasp the hem of someone’s, anyone’s singed clothing.

_Please._ Her vision is hazy, fading. _Help me._

Fareeha feels a strong arm wrap around her middle. Then, blackness.

***

Angela hates parties.

There are better things she could be doing. The young elf longs for the tome that lay open on her desk; her finger itches to graze along its aged pages and digest its wisdom. Her staff needed further modifications before it is next used. She should be doing research on her pupil’s inquiry of medicinal arcana before their luncheon meeting tomorrow-

Alas, when her Master Instructor requests her presence at the Erathis Soirée, she best do as her master wishes.

Never has Angela wished more that she had the emotional capacity to be insubordinate.

Luckily for her, she saw the opportunity to steal away from the stuffy, crowded room quite early into the evening. Angela bobbed and weaved through the congestion with graceful ease, steadily carrying the wine she has been nursing since the Matriarchs commenced the soirée.

Angela has to say, despite the hustle and bustle that go on behind her, the courtyard does well in muting the commotion to white noise. The personage of a dove stuck uncomfortably to the bridge of her nose; damp heat rode along the bones of her cheeks. She couldn’t take it off, as it was the most taboo of Erathis Soirée party fouls, being bare faced at the Divine Masquerade. She angled her head just so to allow the night air seep into the narrow cracks between her alabaster skin and the white mask.

“It is good to see you, Lady Ziegler.” The smooth silk of the lilted voice is unmistakable. Angela suspected that she would see her superior at some point.

Angela prepares a faux smile to present, then turns. “Happy Day of Creation, Matriarch O’Deorain.”

Even as the moon shines bright above them, Angela still feels that the taller woman is casting a shadow over her. Matriarch Moira O’Deorain looks handsome tonight. While her mask sparkles a modest silver, the two curved eye slits met small violet gemstones. Her ivory suit was exemplary.

Crisp, white, excellently tailored. The tuxedo is cinched tightly at the waist, coattails flaring to emphasize a surprisingly wavy figure. Angela’s eyes catch a flash of skin between the lavender peak lapels. No, not a flash, a valley. Matriarch O’Deorain is shirtless, save for the jacket and low hanging silver chain with a finely marquise cut rose quartz dangling from a small circlet attaching the two pieces together.

Angela swallows a large gulp of her now-flat wine. This was certainly a welcome improvement to the lax alchemist frock she is accustomed to seeing the Matriarch in.

The fiery red ginger offered Angela a comforting smirk. So, Angela’s anxiety was perceptible then. Excellent…

Then again, there was not a person alive who was not privy to Angela’s insufferable social anxiety. She never manages to hide it very well, and even as a hundred-something year old elf (she gave up counting her age long ago; Angela supposes when she dies, she dies) she never quite educated herself to withstand the nerve-wracking presence of people. Angela feels her nervous smile falter in favor of a troubled grimace.

Angela had to save face somehow. And so, before her Master Instructor could utter a word, Angela takes advantage of the silence to alleviate her own awkwardness –

“WiththeresearchwehavegatheredIhavemanagedtocreateasimplecantrip,” Breath, “thattransmutesdeadcellstolivingones,” breath, “whichinturnhavecellularregenitivepropertiesthatcanbringsomeonebackfromthebrink,” breath, “of death.”

-to no avail.

Angela quickly shuts her eyes as if anticipating a strike.

The Matriarch laughs.

Not an unpleasant sound, low and dignified, Angela feels a blush creep up her already misty cheeks. The small witch has never heard her superior laugh before. She supposes it’s…nice.

Matriarch O’Deorain’s gentle chuckle recedes into a fond hum. “If it’s all the same to you,” her mismatched eyes glimmer in the moonlight, and Angela’s heart skips a beat, “I would like to avoid work-centered report.” The corners of the taller woman’s lips rose in an earnest grin. In a slow movement, as if a slight shift in position would scare Angela away like a frightened doe, one of Matriarch O’Deorain’s hands slips out of the pocket of her lavender trousers, palm open to Angela. A suggestion.

“Lady Ziegler,” The handsome woman’s honeyed voice washes over Angela like a refreshing oasis, a glimpse of familiarity in a strange environment. Angela inspects the lines of the delegate’s hand, tracing the creases as if it was telling her vital information. When her gaze travels up, she is startled to see how kindly those crimson and blue eyes regard her. They are waiting patiently, not goading nor retreating; imperturbable. “May I have this dance?”

_Dance? She wants to dance with_ me _?_

Angela’s mind disconnects with her body, watches as it moves. There was a peculiar pull, an unequivocal urge to take the Matriarch’s offer. She wants to _dance_.

The contact of Angela’s fingers to the warm palm before her was a fateful button, sending the witch’s world spiraling out of her control.

***

Goliaths are…interesting at parties.

Not to themselves, oh no. Goliaths were naturally reclusive, kept to themselves or their kind. This instance is a good example of why.

Aleksandra is secluding herself to a corner a ways away from the commotion of the ballroom floor, watching as people were whispering to themselves, pointing at her as if she isn’t noticing. Well, she does notice, and she does _not_ appreciate it.

Aleksandra can’t really blame them, per se. Goliaths were a rare breed in Gibraltar Isle, and the scant amount that are here wouldn’t dare attend such a congested event. Too many small people in a small space. If it weren’t for her renown, she doubts that even she would be here.

It isn’t everyday that you get a letter from a Matriarch asking for the world’s most celebrated athlete to make an appearance to their special annual shindig.

It’s also not everyday that the mistress of your clan asks you to attend to keep up a strained alliance.

So, yeah, here she is.

Aleksandra has to give it to them, Gibraltar had good, chest-hair-growing whiskey. The few partygoers brave enough (or drunk enough) to approach a giant whose muscles were so bulbous that they were on the verge of tearing their leather cloth encasement and whose gaudily bejeweled mask in the likeness of a sharp-toothed roaring bear, had some gusto that she can respect. She only crushed one pen of a fan seeking an autograph, and she’s signed at least five.

She is making an appearance. Here she is, appearing. If she walks out of the door now, she will have appeared. The common language and its tenses are surely a wonder.

Aleksandra knocks back the remainder of the brown liquor, placing the empty glass on the platter of a conveniently passing busboy. To the clique of young women sending suggestive glances her way, she waves and winks. A pride blooms in her chest when they erupt into high-pitched giggles, one of them furiously fanning herself. It isn’t so bad being famous.

Hopefully she’s famous enough to get a decent room at a local tavern. Either way, her departure is imminent.

“If I were you my friend, I would run.”

Aleksandra’s head snaps every which way, eyes hastily scanning the anonymous crowd. She knows that voice, echoing and distant, the tone was very much the same. But it couldn’t be.

_What?_

_Was that-_

An explosion. A crash. A scream; then hundreds. Darkness, heat, burning, clambering one over the other. Pushing, pulling, cursing, falling. Insanity.

_Fuck._


End file.
